On The Side Of Angels
by Quinnzical
Summary: AU Fic.  Priest!John/Addict!Sherlock.  Malicious!Mycroft   Father John unwittingly finds himself pulled into the dark world of demons when a frantic man begs him for sanctuary.
1. Chapter 1

**On The Side Of Angels**

Alternate Universe

Rating: T

_By: Sophie Quinn_

_Twitter: Quinnzical__

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><p>"Father John?" Her voice came timid in the silence of his office, nearly lost to his ears by the distant thunder that rumbled and roared through the skies. He watched as she shifted, her thoughts stirring and settling as she carefully decided how best to ask her question. Hands tucked protectively around her torso, her legs drawn up as she tried so desperately to simply disappear within the fabric of the sofa. Fearful, wary, running from her own guilt. Posture and presence screamed to him that she had a story to tell and had no one else to talk to. He knew so much about her before she started to speak, but remained silent. Her words would come as she felt comfortable sharing them, and he would take each as if they were a precious gift. "Do you.. do you ever lose faith in people?"<p>

John Watson had never pictured himself becoming a priest. In his younger years, when his life was still untarnished and all of the ideals in the world glittered with potential, it was medicine that captured him. Learning of his fellow man, finding ways to heal them when they fell sick or injured. Sustaining the balance of life and death with healing hands. Five years of medical expertise that brought him the joys of restoring a heartbeat, and the elation of hearing that first renewed gasp of breath. Five years of the blue lips of children, lying still and cold, the parents screaming at him to just _do something_, and the impotence of his inability to bring them back. The call to military service was a heralding of angels as the world grew dark around him. Death was an inevitability, and he was needed in the field to help those most desperate. At least there would be no children.

Five years of patching up wounded soldiers, mending what was left of missing limbs, reattaching burned patches of skin. Men and women that volunteered, adults that knew the risks and bravely strode forward expecting the worst. He thrived in his service for Queen and Country, faithfully tending to Her Majesty's uniformed best. Five years of predictable routine until a mission went awry and the only shelter that could be found from an enemy ambush was a small schoolhouse, full of children.

He would never forget the wide, fearful eyes of kids, staring at his platoon as they huddled in dark corners. He would never forget the screaming. He would never forget the searing bullet that ripped through his shoulder as he dove from formation to protect a small boy. He would never forget the vacant brown eyes, as his heroic efforts did absolutely nothing to save him.

John shifted in the chair behind his desk, his fingers folding tightly together in front of him to still the tremor that rocked through his left hand. He had never pictured himself becoming a priest, but he had to believe that there was something better after death. Some, higher power, that would give reason and meaning to the horrific memories that raged on within his nightmares.

He shook his head slightly, steeling himself with a breath. "No, never in people, Molly. No matter what a person has done in their life, no matter the terrible choices they may make or the people they hurt. Everyone has the potential to become something more than they are."

She spoke to him openly for the next hour, and he did his best to listen without interruption. When he did speak, he tried his best to quell her fears and give her hope, but there was no telling if his words meant anything to her by the time she felt ready to leave his office. She only promised to return again should she need anything, and offered the thinnest of smiles as she stepped from the foyer and disappeared into the beginnings of a summer storm.

John waited a moment longer at the entry way to his church, shifting the majority of his weight to his right leg as a sharp burn radiated through the left. The rain was falling heavily already, and the wind increasing as the minutes ticked by. Warnings had been going out over the radio for most of the evening. Storm of the century, take immediate shelter, the usual drivel that meant a whole lot of wet, a bit of wind and some flashes in the distance. However, now that the storm was slowly settling over the city, he was torn between hiding deep within the basement of the church and standing out in the middle of the street just to have a better view of the lightning.

It lit up the distant sky as if cued by his thoughts, the clash of thunder following only a few seconds after. The force of the noise was enough to rattle the stained-glass, and more than enough to prompt him into pushing the heavy door closed with a loud thud. With an uneasy limp, he slowly made his way to the small living chambers that he used as his own private residence. Navigating the pews between flashes of lightning, giving wary glances to the colorful windows with every clash that made them tremble in their framing. He doubted that any sleep would come until the cacophony of the storm had fallen into silence, but it was a good night for a hot cup of tea and a casual browse through the days newspaper.

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><p>The black and white pages remained untouched on his bedside table, and the caramel hued cuppa long gone cold and forgotten as the storm raged on. He sat on the edge of his mattress, head held lightly within his palms as he closed his eyes against his own memories. It was always the children. Their twisted faces screaming silently in the back of his mind, eyes wide and terrified as fires lit smoke filled skies and gunfire echoed so close and so loud. John clenched his left hand into a tight fist to fight the trembling that shook his fingers and made every nerve ending burn. Sleep never came without the precursor of nightmares of his life as a soldier, and on the rare occasion he did fall into a heavy rest, it was shattered with the images that refused to give him a reprieve.<p>

His therapist constantly told him that he needed to talk about it. Her repetitive medication for his traumatic experience was to just share it with someone else as if verbalizing the imagery seared into his mind would somehow make it all just disappear. No one deserved to have those images in their mind, and he couldn't bring himself to describe it to anyone for fear that they would become just like him. John tried talking to his sister, but could never seem to find the right combination of words that were both the truth and enough of a lie that he wouldn't corrupt her own thoughts. With no one else to turn to, he turned to the only plausible being in all of creation that wouldn't be damaged by what he had to say, and wouldn't tell him that everything would be alright with time.

Slowly fingering off his clerical collar from around his throat, John forced a shaking breath from deep within his chest and stood to change into his sleep clothes. He had to clench his teeth together as the throbbing in his leg became positively unbearable, making his progress in such a simple act of getting dressed, slow and agonizing. The banging from above in the atrium of the church froze him in place with one leg half slipped within his trousers. There was no lightning in the seconds before the sound, so thunder seemed unlikely, and the clattering of metal that followed was unlike any noise typically caused by a storm unless walls were being torn asunder.

Quickly, John finished getting dressed and made his way up the rickety flight of stairs to investigate what he assumed to be an intruder. He paused only to grab the cane leaning against his door frame, resting the majority of his weight against it as he hurried along. Though it seemed almost ridiculous for someone to break into a church, it wasn't unheard of for vandals to force their way in if only to steal the wine and desecrate absolutely everything in sight. He had been fortunate, so far, that the only people that crossed the threshold were people in need of help.

Between the violent rumbling outside, a small, but deep, voice rose up in the silence. Hesitant at first, and then a stronger,steady, and well tuned hum. John recognized it only as a classical piece that he had heard once on a lift, though the melody was much improved by the mysterious man who was singing it.

He followed the voice blindly through the darkness of the church, peering into shadows broken by the flickering of light in painted windows. A call of a siren, a lone angel, John moved cautiously to a row of pews settled in a back corner and lifted his cane to prod at the tip of a rain soaked shoe. The song stopped for only a moment as the storm's lightning flashed and lit the row. The man with the alluring voice had stretched himself out on the padded seating, his hands folded behind his head and his gaze lost into oblivion. John could only stare at him as intently as the lanky man stared into the darkness of the rafters.

There was no handbook given to anyone who chooses to sign up and become a preacher, though most would argue that the bible is a sort of handbook. He struggled to find the right words to break the complete lack of conversation, and quoting scripture seemed dated and trivial at the moment. He knew nothing about the stranger lounging about in the darkness of his church, dripping a river of rainwater on the wood flooring, staring vacantly. A simple 'hello' didn't seem like enough, and John presumed an onslaught of questions regarding the purpose of the breaking and entering, may just spark a violent defense. Luckily, he had no time to continue ruminating on the subject.

With little warning, the invader turned, heaved, and vomited on the flooring beside the pew. Shallow breaths followed quick gasps, and in an instant John was at his side with the tips of his fingers pressed lightly against his throat. Thready and faint, the man's pulse raced on and only in those seconds did the former military doctor take note that his skin was frigid and he was violently trembling. He presumed absolutely pissed as a premature diagnosis, but with a gentle hand he tilted up his chin and furrowed his brow at the glassy, vacant, stare and dilated pupils.

"Jesus.. what are you on, mate?" John muttered softly, continuing to monitor vitals as he put his weight into shifting the rain sopped man into a steadier sitting position.

"Blasphemy, doctor. We... are in a church." He responded, an almost amused twinge to his voice before it drifted off completely, his eyes falling closed. John gave him a light shake, patting at his cheek in an attempt to rouse him. Unevenly, the heavy lashes flitted open and the glassy gaze locked onto his own. He had a thousand questions that were mingling with his growing concerns that the half-drowned man may be on the verge of an overdose, and no time or coherency to be able to form them into proper sentences.

In the distance, a car door slammed and voices rang out. As the sounds echoed into the church, the unruly haired, rain soaked, wide eyed man that he had to hold onto to keep him from toppling over, was instantly on his feet. "How does he do that.. No. I know how. I always know how. So fast, too fast. I need to hide. I need to hide somewhere he wouldn't look, but he sees _everywhere._"

"Who...?" John asked softly, his gaze focusing on the silhouette of street lamps through the open doors, and the steady flow of raindrops that obscured them.

"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet..." His voice so still, so even, was terrifying on its own without the perfectly timed flash of lighting that accompanied it. "You grant sanctuary, don't you, Doctor? That's what they do in these places? I ask for sanctuary, you give it. I have to hide. He mustn't find me."

"Why do you keep calling me doctor?" His brow creased slightly, both confusion and paranoia bubbling along within the cacophony of thoughts in the back of his mind.

"Not important. One last time. Will you help me?" The tall, mysterious, wind swept and frantic stranger gazed down at him. Impossibly long fingers gripping at John's shoulders with a desperate need that no man of service could even fathom ignoring. "Please.."

He nodded slightly, half turning towards the staircase that led to his private chambers as the voices outside grew louder. Pulling along the frenzied man, John gave no more than a glance over his shoulder at the open doors to his church before they disappeared into the catacombs below. He hushed his impromptu guest once he had him stashed away within his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him as he brushed his hands over his torso and calmly made his way back up the stairs. If sanctuary was requested, he would grant it, especially if the one in need had the decency to say please.

"Excuse me, gentlemen?" John, surprised at how calm and absolutely normal his voice sounded, stood a little straighter as he approached one of the two men currently searching the shadows of the pews. "Can I help you?"

"Ah, the good Father. I believe something I have lost has wandered into your lovely little church. I would like it back." The one who spoke stood off to the side, one hand curled lightly around the handle of an umbrella and the other resting casually within the pocket of his waistcoat. If he was in charge, then the two men searching were certainly within his employ.

"What.. what are you looking for, exactly?" John's brevado faltered a singular moment, and that hesitation brought a grin to the lips of the man studying him. The silence that stretched between them seemed absolutely infinite, and the scrutiny was verging on unbearable.

"It must be quite expensive to maintain a church this old, and keep it looking so beautiful. I would be more than happy to supplement your cause with a rather...gratuitous donation." He grinned, and John felt it looked more like a predator bearing its teeth before preparing that final pounce.

"Not interested." He stated simply, his lips pursing together.

"I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Doesn't matter."

"Hmm. You are very loyal, very quickly. Do you even know what it is that you are hiding? What it is that you are keeping from me?" Ever so slowly, the man in the shadows stepped closer, the tip of his umbrella clicking lightly against the wooden flooring with every step.

"Why is it so important to you?"

"I am concerned, Father."

"Concerned? You don't seem concerned."

"Quite the contrary. I worry about him." He paused. "Constantly."

John did not falter beneath the burning stare and unnerving smile, if anything, he shifted slightly to stand taller and his chin tilted up in his best show of defiance. He could feel in an instant why it was that the drenched man in his basement was so intent on hiding from the umbrella wielding madman. "Are we done here?"

The grin cocked and the umbrella tapped twice against the aging floorboards. Both men intently searching through the darkened corners immediately stood and started walking towards the door. "Give a good long thought to my offer, Father. It is, as they say...for a limited time only."

They had disappeared into the storm as quickly as they had come, slamming the heavy doors to the church behind them. It was several flashes of lighting and one loud crash of thunder later when John was finally able to step away from where he had firmly planted himself against the intruder. He hadn't even realized that he was holding in a breath until the ache in his chest forced him to release it in one heavy exhale. Every step back down the staircase to his private chambers was another doubt to his actions.

John lightly pushed aside his bedroom door expecting to get answers, but found his questions stilled. On his floor lay a pile of wet clothing and a water droplets leading here and there. The man, only moments earlier, frantic and sick all over the ground, had changed into some of the preachers clothing, toweled off his unruly hair and curled up quite comfortably beneath John's blankets, where he..as it seemed..had fallen into a very deep slumber.

Soft snoring confirmed his suspicions.

John shook his head, one hand reflexively moving up to rub, unbelieving, at his forehead and back through his short cropped hair. Not wanting to wake his unintentional guest, but not seeing fit to leave him alone should he choke on his own vomit, John settled into his arm chair and shifted about until a remotely comfortable position was found. He sighed softly, his gaze trained intently on the lump beneath the blankets as he ran it all over again in his thoughts. Not realizing, on the cusp of a well needed sleep of his own, that he had started humming aloud, the odd little melody that drew them together not an hour earlier.

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><p>Please Review!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The room that John had taken to using as his private chambers was anything but lavish. He saw no need to fill it with personal decorations or mementos of his life which left the walls bare and the shelving empty. The few books he found time to read were placed neatly at the edge of a small writing desk that contained only a lamp, his laptop, and the occasional half-consumed cup of tea. As far as furniture was concerned, he only bothered to give himself a comfortable lounge chair to rest in while he mulled over the days events, a seat at his desk for when he worked on his sermons, a modest wardrobe full of modest clothing [mostly stripy jumpers], and his bed. Not overly comfortable itself, it was only big enough for one grown person to lie in it at a time and was meticulously made up when he wasn't restlessly attempting to sleep within it. Frequently, John found himself nodding off in a rather awkward slouch within his armchair, rather than stretched out along the firm mattress, and would wake to the trill of his alarm with a crick in his neck and a throbbing ache along his lower back.

Wednesday morning stirred John slowly from his slumber to the familiar pains of a prolonged sitting position. The haze of dreams and vague nightmares drifting away as he rubbed at his eyes and rolled his neck, moving slowly to work out the kinks in muscle and tension in awkwardly stretched tendons. It wasn't unusual to him that he woke in a place that wasn't his bed and he felt nothing but indifference to the imposition of discomfort in his joints, but the lump beneath his blankets and the tuft of curly black hair poking out from beneath them had him set aback in his thoughts for a moment. The confusion flickered away as quickly as it had come as the surreal ending to his otherwise mundane day flooded back to his consciousness.

He let a slow breath shift past his parted lips, staring openly at the bloke asleep in his bed. There was no name to go to the face, and no explanation for the strange activities that livened up his evening. Only a dried puddle of sick on his church floor and a stranger resting comfortably in the safety John provided. He pulled himself up from his chair with one hand clenching at his thigh and the other scooping up the half empty tea cup at the desk. His limp was cumbersome and slowed his progress as he left the man alone in search of something hot and filled with caffeine.

The hallways beneath the church were dark and chilly, the lights over head constantly flickered, and the kitchen was settled back in a rarely accessed corner. He paused to use the restroom on his way, finding himself momentarily trapped in a room no bigger than a closet as he fought to un-stick the door from its warped framing. He gave a grunt, throwing his shoulder into the aging wood before immediately regretting the decision as a sharp pain radiated down along his arm. It would be bothering him for the rest of the day now, but at least he was no longer locked within the bathroom.

A small sound echoing down the hallway from his bedroom had him pausing on his way to the kitchen, his brow creased slightly as he slowly limped his way back. Leaning around the door frame, expecting to see his guest awake or completely gone, he raised a brow to find that the lanky man had only shifted slightly beneath the blankets. His hands were curled beneath his chin now, the bedding pushed down against his chest and his face half turned into the pillow. He looked perfectly content occupying the borrowed mattress, completely unfazed. John watched him for another moment before pulling the door closed and shuffling off to the kitchen. He set out two small cups for tea as he started warming the kettle, clanging out a frying pan to make up a quick breakfast. If he was to be host, he may as well be a gracious one and offer the man a decent meal when he finally woke.

The kettle whistled softly and the eggs sizzled, the damp air in the small kitchen smelled of warm butter and sweet tea, and all the while John meticulously made breakfast he shifted awkwardly on his aching leg. A toaster nearly as old as the counter it rested on had just finished popping up two slices of browned toast when a soft 'eh hem' drew John's attention to the doorway of the kitchen. The stranger, clad in his trousers that were too short and his jumper that was too baggy, leaned heavily against the frame with red eyes and wild hair.

"Did you sleep alright?" John asked, sliding a plate across the small table followed by the cup of warm tea. He gestured lightly, pleased when his guest fell into the chair and eagerly began nibbling at the toast. The man gave him little more than a grunt in response as if putting effort into forming words would have exhausted him back into unconsciousness. The quiet tinging of silverware on glass filled the silence as they both ate, though John did far more actual eating than the man at the table. If it could be classified as anything, he was simply pecking at his food like a stringy bird, stabbing it halfheartedly with the tines of the fork.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" He ventured, setting aside his plate within the sink as he leaned against the counter to sip his tea. "The man from last night didn't seem like a police officer, not a typical one anyway. He seemed keen on finding you though, like you were important, or dangerous. Are you... dangerous?"

The man snorted slightly, glancing up at him through his eye lashes before glancing down to the mutilated plate of food in front of him. His voice was croaked and harsh, but the amusement was evident in his tone. "Hardly."

"Then... important?" He raised a brow, flicking his gaze over the gaunt features, pale skin, tangled hair, borrowed clothing, and red eyes. He paused at the shaking fingers and canted his head slightly as he took note that the nameless man was anxiously bouncing a leg beneath the table. He looked every bit the part of a homeless drug addict, but found his curiosity piqued as an amused response never followed the question.

"Did he offer you money in exchange for me?" The bouncing of his leg paused for only a moment and then started up again as if he had been fighting off the compulsion with every ounce of his control. His fingers shook and he tightened them against his palm before he quickly dropped his hand beneath the surface of the table.

John shook his head slightly, bringing the edge of his teacup to his lips. "Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No." His answer came without hesitation and John watched as all twitching movements of hands and legs ceased in an instant. His answer was apparently a surprise, and for a moment, John wondered how many people in the past had betrayed this man for the promise of riches.

"Why not? It is obvious that you could use the money and you know nothing about me. You don't even know my name." His brow creased, a slight jitter shaking his shoulders before he stood to pace the small kitchen. John couldn't help but be the slightest bit amused as he watched, if only because the borrowed trousers were nearly six inches too short on his long legs and the striped jumper he took to wearing hung off his lean shoulders like a poncho.

"You needed my help." He responded, turning slightly to set aside the cup in his hands. It clattered into the sink with the rest of the dishes, followed quickly by the ones tidied up from the table. The man scoffed at him again, long fingers scratching at forearms and his bottom lip pulled tightly between his teeth.

"You can't help me." He resigned.

"I can try." John offered.

"I am going to disappoint you." He insisted.

"I may be wrong, but I believe that is up to me to decide." He stood his ground, glancing him over again for another moment. The man continued to pace, curling his fingers into the soft fabric of the jumper, bringing his hand to his face to rub his knuckles against his eyes and back through the tangles of black hair. As heartbreaking as it may have been to observe, John did little else for the next six and a half minutes. Every now and then, a jumble of mumbled words would fall from the strangers swollen lips but for the most part he was silent, shaking, and striding purposefully back and forth from one counter top to the other.

"Sherlock." He said suddenly, furrowing his brow as if the word was some great offensive insult that he just spat at the preacher, but the preacher only grinned. "My name is Sherlock."

He stepped forward slightly, offering his hand which was accepted by clammy, trembling fingers. Surprisingly, the handshake itself was firm and confident. "John Watson."

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><p>Quite frequently, donated boxes of clothing would show up on the steps to the church. John would sort through them, then deliver them to local shelters for the homeless, or homes for the abused. It was in one of the boxes that he was able to find a suitably sized outfit for Sherlock, complete with a fairly decent scarf and long black woolen jacket should he find himself running about in another rainstorm. He seemed pleased with the discovery, though his lanky guest tried to argue with him against wearing second hand items, citing reports on parasites, diseases, and bad fashion.<p>

John argued that wearing clothes that were too small and too baggy wasn't exactly the height of London's catwalk, and without a word, Sherlock stalked off to change. When he reappeared, he lounged himself into a pew nearby where John had paused to mop up the dried sick, his leg bouncing as he nibbled at his fingernails and threw off the occasional random inquiry.

"Why a priest?" He asked curiously, one leg thrown over the back of the seat as he stretched out and let his head lie against the arm rest. John glanced over at him, narrowing his eyes at his unconventional guest. "You seem like an intelligent man of science and action. It doesn't make much sense."

"Intelligent men of science and action can't find meaning in religion?" John raised a brow as he finished mopping the flooring, shuffling along as he wheeled the bright yellow bucket into a corner. He caught Sherlock staring at him, almost curiously, as he limped near to him to fetch his cane, his brow twitching as John leaned heavily against it.

"Not typically, no. Which war was it?" He shifted to sit up on the pew, folding his hands together on his lap if only to still the trembling of his fingers. "It must have been a recent one. Afghanistan?"

John found himself stilled, his fingers tightening around the handle held within his palm as he slowly turned to regard Sherlock with a gaze crossed between shock and absolute confusion. "... Yes. How did you..?"

"Every thing about you says military, though not your hands." Sherlock grinned slightly, watching him for another moment before he fussed about to lie back down. No position seemed to be comfortable for any length of time longer than a few seconds, the itching in his nerves screaming at him to get up and move around. He was minutes away from pacing the aisle. "Your hands say 'doctor.'"

"Yes.. you kept calling me that yesterday. How could you possibly know I was a doctor?"

"I am familiar with doctors, you look at me the same as they do, and you don't act much like a priest."

"But Afghanistan..?"

"An army doctor, but now you're a preacher? Only the trauma of war could drive a man from logical thoughts to those of fancy. Looking for reason behind the madness, purpose to the darkness and destruction that plagues humanity. It must have been fairly recent, though, if you had been here for an extended amount of time, you would have repaired the basic damage to the building. The bathroom door, for example. Only major wars recently that you would have been deployed to have been Afghanistan or Iraq."

"Is it that obvious?"

"It is _always_ that obvious." Sherlock grinned, craning his head to look over at John who had taken to standing stock still in the aisle, staring at him. Though the scrawny man's lips parted slightly as if he had a thought to follow up his statement, the words were cut short by the trilling of an alarm at John's wrist. He glanced down at his watch, muttering a soft blasphemous phrase at the read out of the time.

"I have to get ready..." He sighed, glancing at Sherlock before making his way slowly back to the staircase that led to his room.

"For what? It's Wednesday." John heard the shuffling of heavy wool and the steady footfalls that let him know that Sherlock was following him and he gave little more than a glance over his shoulder to acknowledge it. Hesitating for a moment at the top of the stairs, he took a breath and started the tediously painful process of walking to his room.

"Confession from nine to noon, then I have a group coming in at one. At three, I have a meeting with a very lovely young couple about a marriage ceremony and perhaps when I am done with that I may get myself something to eat." He stopped four steps down as Sherlock was suddenly at his side, gazing down at him with a look that was part intrigue and part amusement. "What?"

"Nothing." He grinned. "I am looking forward to watching you work."

"Uh uh." John shook his head, making short but shaky work of the remaining stairs.

"Absolutely not. You are welcome to make use of the church as a sanctuary for as long as you need it. I can even help you to find a place to stay that is more permanent if you have nowhere else to go, but under no circumstances do you get to _watch me work._"

"Oh come now, John. You won't even know I am there."

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><p>The young couple, though they were close to John's own age and therefore made him feel more than a little dejected that he was still single, arrived promptly at three o'clock. They exchanged pleasantries as they made their way to the preacher's office, each asking their own casual questions about how that particular Wednesday had been treating each of them, before the trio settled into their respective chairs. The woman, well put together with freshly curled auburn hair and sharp eyes, lightly and lovingly clutching onto the hand of her fiancee. The man, with rodent like features and pallid skin, occasionally brushed back a stray lock of his own dark hair as he sat and simply let his hand be held. John regarded them with a kind smile, folding his hands together atop his desk.<p>

"So, have you been together long?" He started, keeping his lips curled up as patient and gently as possible. Neither of them seemed to notice, however, their gazes trained on the lanky man lingering in the corner of the office. Unruly curls flopped where they wished and tired eyes staring at them, relentlessly.

"Excuse me, Father? Who...is that?" The woman started, glancing almost uneasily towards the man who had taken to studying them so intently. Sherlock only shifted on his feet, half cocking a brow at John who remained silent as he struggled to remain calm.

"That.. ah, this is Sherlock. He is... my...apprentice. He has taken a vow of silence, that he is very, very serious about keeping, though, so there is no worry of interruption." John forced that smile, glancing at Sherlock who creased his brow before shuffling from the corner to sit on the sofa nestled back in a corner. The couple seemed to relax visibly, well at least the female half had. The man still gave a sidelong glance to the lanky stranger who had moved behind them, and therefore made him even more uncomfortable. "Now, please do tell me about yourselves."

John learned, within half an hour, that they were to be Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, they had met in a coffee shop a block from a crime scene where Mr. Anderson was working. The courtship had been short but very, very sweet, according to Mrs. Anderson, and they were both looking forward to someday starting a family, perhaps somewhere in the quiet country. She was looking forward to a beautiful ceremony, had been attending John's services for several weeks now, and was absolutely enamored with the way he preached the gospel.

The large doors closed quietly behind them as John escorted them out with a delighted wave and a promise of a future meeting to work out wedding details. The days events catching up with him all at once; he breathed out a long exhale and let his forehead rest against the aging wood. His leg was positively aching, and his stomach was protesting loudly that he hadn't eaten since the small breakfast he made that morning. His only blessing was that Sherlock had remained absolutely silent throughout the entire meeting. A fact, that had both shocked and pleased him.

"He is cheating on her." Sherlock muttered, coming up behind John with his hands shoved deeply within the pockets of the wool coat. John turned to regard him, taking note that the shaking had gotten worse as the day had passed and there was a fine glisten along the taller man's brow. "Would it save you time to refuse to marry them?"

He limped slightly closer, tugging out one of his long arms to get at his wrist, pressing his forefinger firmly against the warm skin. He remained silent for a moment, counting steadily within his head. "You can't tell someone is cheating on their intended spouse within half an hour and a complete lack of conversation with them on the topic."

"I can." Sherlock stated simply, looking down at him curiously as John continued to take his pulse. "You are concerned about me."

"Obviously. You're getting worse." He motioned for Sherlock to have a seat on one of the nearest pews in time for the lanky man to grip at his own torso, pain evident across his pale features. He remained bent slightly as John looked him over, carefully taking vitals while running a list of usable supplies that he had in the church that could aid in abating his discomfort through the detox process.

"How long have the symptoms been increasing?"

"The last hour or so." Sherlock managed through gritted teeth, the man struggling against pains, nausea, and the persistent voice screaming at him that it would all go away if he just gave in already and made the phone call. It was then that John realized why Sherlock had been so compliant and quiet throughout his various meetings with patrons of his church. The addict was detoxing so severely, that had he spoken, the pain would have been evident and John would have started fretting over him. Just like he was at that very moment.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You should have said something, I could have helped sooner." He admonished him as he lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I don't want your help!" He snapped, immediately regretting the venom in his tone. Luckily for him, it barely phased the preacher.

"Then why are you still here?" John countered, shaking his head softly. "I have some things down stairs that will help ease the discomfort and nausea, and I can make some tea to help you sleep. Just..stay here..try not to move around too much."

Sherlock only gave a grunt in response as John hurried off, his gray eyes falling on the cane that had been left behind, leaning against the pew. A brow quirked slightly before another bought of pain through his chest and stomach had him snapping his eyes closed. Counting the seconds as they ticked by, Sherlock watched the darkened entry way to the stair case, anxiously tapping his foot against the wooden flooring before he carefully pulled his mobile from the pocket of the trousers John had found for him to wear. His fingers were shaking and it made navigating the buttons far more difficult than he would have liked, but after a few agonizing moments, it had started trilling against his ear.

The call connected halfway through the first ring.

* * *

><p>John heard the car door slamming closed three steps up the stair case, a tray of assorted items carefully balanced within his hands. His brow furrowed as the tingling sense of foreboding settled along the back of his neck, nagging at him that he should be forgetting what was in his hands so he could start running. At the top of the stairs he caught sight of the dapper man from the night before, umbrella hanging off his arm, standing in front of Sherlock. One hand was gripping at the addicts forearm, the other clutched firmly at the back of his neck. Sherlock was sagged, shoulders hunched and head down as silent words were mouthed close to his ear.<p>

"What is going on here?" John demanded as he approached, pausing only to set aside the tray. He kept his gaze firmly trained on Sherlock who had only nodded slightly to whatever had been said to him, his trembling figure turning to walk from the church without even a glance in John's direction.

"I have hope for you, good Father, and applaud what you've managed in such a very, very short time." The man started, watching Sherlock get into an unmarked, tinted windowed, black vehicle. John watched as well, his lips parted and brow furrowed. "However, may I suggest you simply forget about Sherlock?"

"Where are you taking him?"

"Where he belongs, Mr. Watson. Oh don't worry, he will be taken care of. Given what he needs." The smile that curled the man's lips was cold, calculating and unnerving, and it was more than a little surprising to John that he stood unfaltering before him.

"He is under my care." He insisted, his stance straightening slightly. "I can't allow you to take him when he's requested sanctuary, and you can't just show up to steal him off."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Father. That is why I waited until he called for me to come to get him. I knew it would only be a matter of time. Addicts are, as you should know, fairly predictable. Before you it was a Detective Inspector named Lestrade. Unfortunate, really, that he couldn't just _let it go." _ The man smiled, his head canting softly. "But I know that you are an intelligent man and will remember what I said. Forget Sherlock, Mr. Watson."

"And if I don't?" With a tap of the umbrella against the wooden flooring, the man turned and began walking out. He paused, only for a moment, to grab the cane that had been left leaning against the pew. John's lips parted slightly, how brow furrowing as he looked down at his leg that had not been hurting in the least. Distracted by his concern? Adrenaline?

"If you don't, Mr. Watson, I can assure you that your limp will no longer be psychosomatic." There was a soft sigh as the cane was set back down, the taller man turning slightly to regard him. "I do hate making threats. They always sound so dramatic. I think your situation is quite clear, however."

John followed him as he left the church, his steps pausing just inside the archway as he fought to see through darkened windows. He wanted to know that being compliant wasn't going to send Sherlock off to some horrific fate, that this was something that the lanky man had chosen, that he hadn't failed him completely by simply allowing the umbrella wielding madman to take him.

John couldn't sleep. His doubts and worrying so heavily on his mind, that every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Sherlock. Those slender shoulders hanging with such dejection, his gaze cast to the floor as the taller of the two held firmly onto the back of his neck. He should have protested further, he should have grabbed a hold of the wool coat and pulled him back into the church where he knew he would be well cared for while he detoxed. He should have done _something. _

Heaving a sigh, the preacher finally resigned himself to not sleeping at all. His foot catching on the pile of dried clothing that Sherlock had left heaped on his floor only assuring that he would continue to think of him as the night dragged on. Idly, and perhaps in a desperate attempt to clear his head, John pulled out his laptop and flicked it open. It took naught but twenty seconds of staring at the web browser before he typed in a singular string of search commands, his breath catching in his throat at the line of news articles endlessly listed.

**Detective Inspector Lestrade Death Mystery**

**Questions Surrounding Lestrade Murder**

**No Suspects In Brutal Slaying of Detective Inspector**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

John found an odd comfort in sitting within the small confessional booth. The walls were near, and the air was still. There was never a loss for quiet, even when he listened silently to the admissions of the flock. By mid-day, even those hushed voices became little more than a whisper as each person let the weight of their guilt and shame fall from their shoulders to the worn carpeting at their feet. He rarely had to speak in turn, only vague confirmations that he was, indeed, there and willing to take their moral burdens from them. There was no list of penances to be consulted to admonish their sins, and there was, perhaps, a bit of guilt on his part when he realized that after the seventeenth patron, he was simply repeating himself.

It wasn't usual for him to fall into a palindromic rhythm of duplication, but to be very honest, he did have other things on his mind. His thoughts had become wholly obsessed with the trembling man named Sherlock, the mysterious suit who stole him away, and the Detective Inspector that had somehow found himself falling victim in a dangerous game of persistence that lead to his death. In between the short visits from lost sheep, John was left with only his thoughts and he couldn't really be blamed if that's where they chose to linger. Idly, he grabbed up his cane from where he left it resting against the thin divider of the confessional, pursing his lips together as a ineffable expression twisted his features.

If he had to guess, John thought that perhaps he looked a bit enraged at the inanimate stick. Annoyed, perhaps, or even a bit insulted, that he had spent the last few agonizing months depending on it for stability and relief of a pain that never really existed in the first place. A few of the flock had noticed his lack of a limp and praised his quick healing. A good number of them said that it must have been God's kind hand that relieved him of his malady, but John knew better. It wasn't some omnipresent deity, it certainly wasn't the many prayers his congregation had been throwing his way, it was a shaky drug addict that stumbled out of the rain. High out of his mind, hands shaking and eyes wide in the shadows of the church; frantic. Sick on the floor, passed out in his bed, and trembling; feeble. Standing there with his head held down by a firm grip on the back of his neck, shuffling his feet out to an unmarked car and then simply; gone. Somehow, Sherlock had made him better and John was struggling to figure out how.

He cursed quietly, earning a small gasp from the other side of the thin screen to his right. A frown curled his lips and he shook his head in silent admonition against himself. So lost in his thoughts, he had been ignoring the young woman beside him for a solid seven minutes. "I am so..so very sorry, miss. I have, well, there has just been quite a bit on my mind."

"Where does a preacher go to confess, Father?" She asked softly, her voice giving away how relieved she was that perhaps he hadn't heard a thing she just admitted. "Who do you talk to when there is no one else to listen?"

"We..we pray, I suppose." John couldn't remember the last time he had a heart to heart with the supreme being he supposedly served. In fact, the last time he uttered anything aloud, spoken in earnest, to the higher power was during his military service.

_Please God, let me live._

He also found himself staring at his hand throughout the mundane and repetitive tasks of his day as if it were a stranger's appendage. It remained still when otherwise it would tremble until he was forced to clench it tightly at his side. Another odd side-effect of his 18 hour intrigue with Sherlock, one that perplexed him even further than his mysteriously vanished limp. Medically, it made no logical sense unless his maladies were nothing more than a fabrication of his own damaged mind. But he was a strong minded military man with extensive schooling and a well-bred background, not exactly the type to fall so easily to mental illness, despite his therapists constant assurances to the contrary.

Speaking of which...

John glanced at his watch, calculating how much longer he could linger within the walls of his church before absolutely _having_ to take the weekly taxi across the city to her office. If he timed it right, he would be late enough to cut the session brief but just on time so as not to incur her wrath. The time ticked by as he idly dusted off a shelf.

* * *

><p>Intentionally, John had walked into the office with his cane in hand and his limp fully forced. It was a conversation he dreaded having, though he could hear it ringing through his thoughts clear as crystal with every awkward step that he took.<p>

_You're doing much better, John._  
><em>Did you have a revelation at church, John?<em>  
><em>Working around people is good for you, John.<em>  
><em>Self reflection has been good for you, John.<em>  
><em>Holding onto your faith will be good for you, John.<em>

The repetition of _things that were good for him_ was endless and droning even as he shifted uncomfortably in the under stuffed chair, waiting for her to speak. His therapist, a woman of thirty or so, continually stared at him and every now and then the scratching of a pencil against paper would shatter the silence between them.

"So, it's been awhile since we've last talked." She flipped through her little book slightly, paging through her notes from their previous sessions and he took his time in reading the scratchy handwriting from where he sat. "Did you have anything you wanted to discuss today?"

He paused and shook his head, "No."

"Nothing of interest lately?" There was a kind smile on her lips, goading him into sharing the swirling storm of thoughts in his head. John remained stubbornly silent. "No new friends?"

"Friends?" Her pencil scritched across the paper and he read it easily. _Still has trust issues._It was a struggle not to scoff aloud, even as his jaw clenched and his gaze flicked back towards the birds outside of the window. "No, no friends."

John wasn't sure he could count Sherlock as a new friend, having only been around him for 18 hours, the majority of which the tall, lanky stranger had spent unconscious in his bed. He was definitely a new _something_, but he had yet to find a proper definition for it. If anything, he was simply and wholly, just … new. Something new, something intriguing, something exciting, and something entirely dangerous. Sherlock was also something that he couldn't stop thinking about, even while he tried to force his mind onto other topics. The patterning on the drapes in the office, flight patterns of sparrows, even the growth rate of tropical house plants. No matter how obscure the topic, they always seemed to loop the perimeter of random and settle back at the beginning.

_What was it about that night that cured his limp?_

The answer, though clear as ever, was insufficient. Sherlock. Always, Sherlock.

"John.. I would like you to give something a try. I know that you may find it a bit odd, and you may be resistant to it at first." Her pencil rested for a moment, long fingers lacing together as she pulled him from his thoughts. "I would like you to start a blog. You can write about anything you wish, even the every day, ordinary, and mundane things that happen to you. Keeping a blog, having a place for the things in your mind, will be good for you and will honestly help."

He didn't miss the glance she gave to the cane in his hand, though he had a feeling that she wasn't exactly attempting to hide it from him. John didn't need a blog for the things in his head and he certainly didn't need a blog to chase away the psychosomatic limp that plagued him. He needed someone tall, with unruly hair, and trembling hands. He needed someone that burst into his life like a flash of lightning through the darkness. He needed Sherlock, and the nagging twinge at the back of his subconscious was screaming at him that perhaps Sherlock needed him as well.

Rationality kicked in well after he left his therapists office, well after he had fake limped his way around the corner, and well after he flagged down a cabbie to take him home. Perhaps it was the cold of the window on his forehead or the humming of the vehicles engine that lulled him, but on the cusp of drowsiness, John had a startling and entirely upsetting revelation.

It was clear that Sherlock did not want his help, or he would not have left the church when sanctuary was freely given. If he wanted his help, he would still be there. A conscious choice was made the moment the phone call was placed, and despite his instincts to throw himself head long into the thick of it all just to help his fellow man, how could he save someone that didn't want saving? It seemed ridiculous and foolish to persist.

Who is the more foolish of the man, the one who wastes his thoughts on those that don't wish for them, or the man that wastes his thoughts on no one at all?

He was rubbing the pads of his fingertips into his eyes as the taxi approached the church, slowed and then stopped at the curb. A nagging headache from a disjointed night of sleeping, and the constant flow of speaking to one person after another, pounding at his skull.

John wanted to go inside, fix himself a cup of tea, lie down on his marginally uncomfortable bed, and let the heavy arms of Morpheus drag him into oblivion. He wanted to do exactly what the man with the umbrella had so kindly suggested and just _forget_ everything that had happened. He wanted to go back to normal and dull; boring and routine. He wanted to return to when things were expected because nothing ever changed. He wanted to fall into the calm and let it lull him into his geriatric years where he could justify buying a rickety rocking chair, have a real reason for needing a cane, and if he found himself very very lucky, he would have a geriatric wife to share every innocuously ordinary moment. He also wanted, at one point in his life, to be an astronaut, a pilot, a world renowned rugby captain, prime minister, a ninja, and to be taller than his sister. As the years flew by, John learned that he rarely ever got what he wanted, and most of the time, that was just fine with him.

John pushed open the heavy doors to the church as the hinges groaned and the framing sang along in an age worn chorus of slow decomposition. A soft sigh of exhaustion on his lips and the weight of his day sagging his shoulders. There was a sermon to write tomorrow, more meetings with members of his congregation, hours of confessional, and he had to pop over to the grocers at some point to pick up a bit of shopping. He let his mental to-do list slowly file itself away to the back of his thoughts for morning, his foot steps shuffling along the wooden floor as he passed pew after pew on his way to the staircase set back in the darkened corner. Colorful beams of moonlight and street lamps broke through painted windows, flickering across his creased features, lighting up the dark edges beneath his tired eyes and casting a glittering rainbow over the speckling of greys in his blond hair.

Sleep would be swift, heavy, and welcome, and though John wouldn't remember it in the morning, his dreams would be filled with images of Sherlock.


End file.
